


i'm too much to handle, you said i shine too bright

by orphan_account



Series: I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT. [1]
Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Bad Poetry, F/M, First Love, Hurt/Comfort, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-03 09:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the heartache is a bubbling darkness foaming at the edges of her fingers until it overflows like a river bursting at the seams, ink mixing into burning coal and then melting into a soft ebony drifting to the brims of her soul. it's bitter, vile, terribly nauseating on the tip of her tongue, screaming murder murder murder kill kill kill, so close to the words stuck in her throat, so close to the unspoken good-byes, numb numb numb, but love is god, love is chaos and murder and petty tendencies, and Jason Dean is just a mix of it all.





	i'm too much to handle, you said i shine too bright

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i know you wanna go to heaven, but you're human tonight.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824656) by [thrives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives). 



**i’m too much to handle, you said i shine too bright;**

**/**

flashing signs leaking into a brilliant crimson staining her hands; pale cerulean flaking off her fingertips; porcelain innocence shattered across her skin by terribly lurid veins,  **bright bright bright** ; a short blue skirt, tight around the edges and flowing at the brims with a dazed fluttering akin to the soft song of a butterfly’s wings; choking on her own words, on hips, on lust on lust on lust; oh, it’s torture to fall in love baby, it’s a nightwalking teenage tragedy; the distant sound of a radio crackling; the bitter aroma of  half-smoked Davidoff cigarettes—y’all smoke to enjoy it, I smoke to die—because that’s our generational motto now: death is sexy death is hot, kill yourself in a dream and death is smoke smoke smoke drink dr **ink drink sex sex sex.**

nobody ever talks about how death is him: tall dark and handsome. she’s never understood the allure, not before she stands in front of him, arms shackled with blood, crimson;  **drip drip drip splash splash splash** ; a pool of murder beneath her feet and the knife glittering like fire; love is god love is chaos is murder is pleasure is lick it uP BABY LI **CK IT—**

**...**

nobody laughs at God when they’re staring at the smoking bullet coming out a gun,  **burns burns burns** , shrivels into a fucking mess inside your heart,  **poke poke poke prod prod prod** , you will never taste sun-shimmer again; you will never hear his shivering pulse— **in the edges of a winter wonderland and running out out out** —again.

sometimes she thinks if she steps off the cliff between their souls that she’ll just float away and he can’t remember the last time he’s looked before taking a leap, and she believes in God and he smokes too much, and she gives her lips to a sweet little boy in her neighbourhood when she’s fifteen and he loses his virginity at thirteen, and she knows she’s in love and falls for the gentle melted kindness hidden in the thought and he hates everything to do with attachment, and she’s fucking dramatic and he’s fucking dynamic, and she’s precise and he’s impulsive, and she thinks he’s absolutely insane and he thinks maybe she is, too.

he stares her in the eyes and she wonders if he’ll swallow her in his dark little storm or if she’ll enter it willingly. his gaze tears apart her defences, her walls, and everything she’s worked so fucking hard to construct around her heart crumbles with a simple flickering of his gaze toward her— **whine whine whine plead plead plead** —and there is a soft elegance to the way he watches her from his throne of isolation. she supposes she should’ve seen it then—the flames of destruction dance around him rather than through him.

his expression moves in time with her every movement and that makes her blood bubble to the surface, slither beneath the skin in discomfort, the blush reaches her cheeks, sometimes, and feels itchy on her pale skin, feels strange and unwonted and crimson and everything like a gasp of spring air, like being shoved into the reality of here and now after losing herself in the fantasy of there and then.

he is everything lazy and otiose and indolent and apathetic; passionate and lush and fast and moving and being fucking pressed against a bathroom wall with him him him and red lights splintering off the glass shards in her heart and lust lust lust; rusty fingertips and blood-soaked eyes and smudgy illuminations of lamp-posts; danger and horror and blood and gore and darkness and dreams bordering on nightmares; smoke smoke smoke drink drink drink sex sex sex; melted chocolate on her thighs and  **lick lick lick suck suck suck** ; whispered nothings turning her into honeyed somethings, breathless words in her ear; say it, say it for it to be enough, say it for it to be forever, for always, say it for it to be ours, yours, mine, say it for it to be enough to the both of us, to me, to you, to the stars sleeping in your eyes, to me,  **to you**.

**...**

“you a Heather?” his voice sends knives through her soul and she’s bleeding bleeding bleeding, her heart sliced like an open wound, burning burning burning, like a knife shattered beneath the tissue, crystal shards piercing and hurting and painfully flaming through her veins.

she gulps, and the liquid shooting down her throat feels like acid trickling through her, like needles pressed against her neck, like all distorted stories end in tragedy, like her. “no,” she says, her voice quieter than she means it to be, “no, I’m a Veronica,” and her eyes are wild and dazed with a hint of distracted and distant and scared because  _how does he know?_

and then the smile he shoots at her is all danger danger danger; something monstrous aching to push through the polite facade; falling falling falling; it’s all hidden and suppressed and repressed behind a wall of which is crafted by the tears in her eyes; it blazes in his eyes instead, kindles in the way he looks at her, and she’s never understood the concept of tall boys with messy hair and deep voices until this moment in which she talks to him and he talks to her, and then her world narrows into a single pinprick of light that’s all him him him.

he says, “nice to meet you,” with a dwindling edge to his tone, a small blackness seeping through the emptiness and oh, it sounds so sickeningly dark; enticing as the forbidden fruit in heaven's garden of Eden, temptingly sweet and heartbreakingly beautiful; enchanting as Lilith as she sits upon her throne of bones, wails for her anguish, cries over the broken reflection of Adam with his darling goddess, wonders why she was chosen to fall from grace, wonders why Eve wasn't. in a single moment of both lucidity and obscurity, her veins rush with his blood, her lungs swell with his air and sometimes, she forgets where he ends and she begins. her voice tastes like sweet honey beneath his intoxicating inflexions, his tone filled with deceit and lies but she overlooks it, somehow, because she is Veronica Sawyer—a hopeful fucking girl, a hopeless fucking crush—and oh, doesn’t he look like an honest chance?

 _you look like a fucking hurricane,_ she wants to say,  _God, I want to drown with you._

**...**

he’s the perfect mix of foolish daydreams starring bad boys with twisted smiles and wicked laughs and old-style shotguns and nectar-burnt lungs, and snark-filled realities with vicious wit tearing into security and a sharp awareness and beautiful intelligence and charm and daring and the faint scent of a cherry slushy on the tip of his tongue. he is Absolut vodka with a hint of peach and tequila sunrises and margaritas and Jack Daniel’s No 7 whiskey drunk straight from the bottle, pure and burning and icily hot on skin on tongue on lips swollen with love bites and flesh tearing itself open with purple blotches filled with lust lust lust. he reminds her of late nights and paper towns and star-soaked breaths and Marlboro cigarettes and alcohol and drinks and everything which makes her forget the desolation in her bones. he’s a half-sharpened knife and love bordering on senseless and a lot of regret. he’s a broken promise, and a broken heart, and then he’s lips and teeth and roaming hands and a story ending in all the ways with which a story usually ends: in a blaze of glory and tears.

her mind is a maze of blue red green blue red and then green again, like a fucking rainbow except the colours are never anything but him him him and he is such a pretty fucking boy, the perfect blend of sophisticated and homicidal tendencies and pleasing and chaotic, and somehow this is all going to turn collapse crumble into the ocean. it’s okay, though—she’s always preferred salt-soaked lust. 

**...**

killing Heather Chandler is like sex on the wrong end of a knife, screaming screaming screaming over a bittersweet storm-cloud. the blood runs through her hands and drips to the floor and shines crimson with rufescence and flows with a gush of  **murderer monster killer** and then the silvery hint of **powerful**. it’s both terrifying and satisfying and not nearly as horrifying as society will make it out to be tomorrow on the newspapers— **a midnight sky tearing itself apart for grief, for anguish, for tears and that same blaze of glory that was in his eyes** —and that makes Veronica wonder if JD’s the cause of this sinfully lustful creature inside her or if it’s always just been there, crawling and sleeping and simmering beneath the skin until it boils over like lava pools over rocks.

it's like a champagne-coloured 1985 where she meets a boy with fucking angel eyes and fucking demon wings and then they tear apart _heaven_ together. they drink blue poison and remember that God gave them rye seeds and hydrogen peroxide, God gave them telephone cords and dance music, and then God gave them woe and misery and fucking torment braided into their hearts. God gave them laughter and they laughed and laughed and laughed until their lungs collapsed into themselves and the oxygen snuffed out like a wisp of smoke and god-dammit, isn't it such a teenage tragedy? isn't it such a pretty fucking landscape?

her hope is synonymous with the dagger dripping with crimson blood and her forgiveness will be Chanel hand-cream on her fingers and cheekbones high up and glowing with layers of highlight and it means  _kiss me,_   _we were all holy once upon a time and there is no reason to be afraid of what happens next._

she dives into the pool of him and loses lucidity in the waves. when she scrambles back onto the bank, a shivering bundle of electric charge and nerves, pulling fish-hooks out of her smiles, swaying from her new lack of perception, she sees black eyes and dark hair and ichor-stained lips. he offers her a silvery dagger, draws blood from her spine and gives a fresh-cut anemone in its stead. maybe it'll make her shattered edges grow softer; maybe it'll replace what's been stolen.

**...**

they had flowers in their hair and stardust entwined in the crevices between their souls. sometimes, she sees him in the empty hallways of her heart, dark and brooding and familiarly glowering over the murky shine of her yellow bedlight. she wants black coffee and good poetry and pictures filled with secret love songs; lark song, rubicund cheeks, siren songs and river water dripping down her stomach; soft white starlight and blackberry wine and shy dawns and flaming peach-flavoured dusks where the sun drowns in the hills. she wants him; she wants him; she wants him.

her eyes fall from his on a star-ridden Sunday and church bells ring in her ears and her fingers have long ago turned into calcium carbonate too alkali for a burning acidic wish, but her confessions still spill to the ground as screams and her pleas for forgiveness still come out as sobs.

she can't tell if she's fighting to hang the heartbreak in the sky or if she's just run out of sin to subtract from her name. pretending it doesn't hurt in all the ways it shouldn't is just another way to let him go and God gave her March in the eyes but her tears—they still taste of February.

**...**

she sees him in every sunrise, in the blood-laced landscape of hearts connected and fates rearranged. she sees him in the ocean, for he is salt-soaked breaths and unstable mentalities and yet he is still so abundant with life. and she hopes he sees her in every solitary grain of sand in the desert, in every overlooked yet somehow essential dose of rock sliding between his fingers and unto the floor.

humans are 18% carbon, 18% diamond, and she thinks that maybe he's 18% stardust.

**...**

he is such a dangerous fucking game. she didn't know he wanted to play  **God**. it's hard to profess who lives and who dies and who tells their story, and she wishes she'd known the falsities of his tragedy-scribbled words when she was young and dreamed of sex sex sex love love love—she's a  **murderer** , she's fucking  **killed** somebody—because they're just two fucked up kids that the world decided to fuck over just once more. they're not indestructible. they're not immortal. they're playing threatening matches of chess with God and sooner or later, all empires crumble.

even Rome fell. and even Achilles had to die.

the sensations she gets when she's with him though—those throbbing feelings of  _yes Veronica, our love is heaven, our love is fucking Aphrodite and lust and passion and our love is **god**_ —she doesn't think she can ever give those up. she is stained with blood but bright as starlight and claiming as temptation and crawling out a black hole, eyes closed for always, seeing only what's inside her.

because it's dark and sad and dangerous and what if what's outside is  **worse** —

**...**

it doesn't take long for her to turn into a forged suicide note and a half-empty ache.

she's translucent—a porcelain girl with glass shards on her fingertips and a plastic rope around her neck. she'd always dreamt of being more permeable, porous. she wants to be a black soaring star, a comet tearing open the sky, a small warm-chested piece of silver armour. does he know that the human body can never hold quintessence in its bones unless it's dressed up and naked in the heavenly glow of a revolutionary angel because he touches her skin and she  **burns** —

he's a little God unto himself, a locust-eater, a fire-bender, a laughing wicked boy with twigs in his pockets and stolen kisses on his lips, a honey-stained tongue. his laughter tastes like vengeance and she knows she will have to learn his name is the Lord. she can't help but stare. he looks so angelic, glowing in the light the way he does, so indifferent to the difference between touching and burning, devotion and fixation. 

the window crashes open with a deafening crack and an ear-piercing smash and just a bit of _close your eyes, it’ll be over soon_. “sorry for coming in through the window,” he says, voice rough and rigid and tense around the boundaries, “dreadful etiquette, I know.” a half-broken sob claws out her throat and she can almost hear the smile in his voice, “hiding in the closet? come on Veronica, unlock the fucking door!”

it’s traumatic. she thinks the stars know what it’s like to taste the lingering songs of lost saints. the next time he sees her, there’s a cigarette slipped in her lips and a gun between her fingertips and she looks at him with tear-stained cheeks and his heart breaks a little and he can’t help thinking that it’s too late and he’s lost his way and all that remains is him and her and this hopeless tragedy all lovers leave behind.

for even Bonnie and Clyde had to come to an end and theirs—glistening with madness and uncertainty and love-struck desire—it’s almost enough to make her smile.

**...**

her skin is peeling from her bones, her eyes have swollen from her sockets and maybe she can cover the smell with her perfume, but the rot will always be there, just under the surface, waiting for her thin mask of _I’m okay, I’m fine, I will be better_ to fall apart.

the saints of God talk about the seven deadly sins, how they ruin what is pure, how they corrupt what is untouched. she thought they’d be ugly, with curved lips and skin stained with grey and green and all the colours it shouldn’t fucking be but anger is lucent with fire; lust and greed are a pale rose welcoming her with open arms, satin sheets and diamond jewels; gluttony has the hunger of a prince as he stares at the throne and they will know one day that his name is the Lord; envy is the colour of the ocean in the early morning, a sparkling gemstone of emerald and glaucous dust; and pride says _of course we’re angelic, do you think Lucifer would have fallen so easily if we weren’t_?

she remembers swearing to the statue of God in the church just beside her home that she would be righteous. the thing she’s done come to her in the middle of the night and whisper _you lied, you lied_.

**...**

the heartache is a bubbling darkness foaming at the edges of her fingers until it overflows like a river bursting at the seams, ink mixing into burning coal and then melting into a soft ebony drifting to the brims of her soul. it's bitter, vile, terribly nauseating on the tip of her tongue, screaming murder murder murder kill kill kill, so close to the words stuck in her throat, so close to the unspoken good-byes, numb numb numb, but love is god, love is chaos and murder and petty tendencies, and Jason Dean was just a mix of it all.

kneading hands on tired shoulders, exhaling slowly, biting lips; hypersomnia, getting breakfast at noon, arching backs by two; forgetting the words to his favourite songs, forgetting how to sob over kindness, forgetting the first touch, first love, first kiss; knowing what it is to be shrouded in shadow and dark lace and blackberry wine, knowing what it is to spend Friday nights sobbing in the middle of a burning ballroom,  knowing what it is to be translucently beautiful; honey-flavoured dawns, peach-soaked doorways, tempting beauty, _it hurts to know that I am your most lovely regret_ ; hiding tears, holding on too tightly, kissing temples, stroking foreheads and then closing doors; this is what a love story looks like my darling, this is what tragedy sounds like.


End file.
